


Patently Wealthy

by Castillon02



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Humor, M/M, Wealth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 14:23:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15536196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castillon02/pseuds/Castillon02
Summary: After discovering that Q lives a higher-end lifestyle than a quartermaster's budget allows for, Bond gets curious: where does Q get his money?





	Patently Wealthy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for 007 Fest 2018. 
> 
> Thanks to @timetospy for encouraging the idea quite a long time ago; I finally wrote it!

On his first visit to Q’s flat, Bond noted in between snogs that it was quite expensively located (Knightsbridge) and furnished (hardwood furniture, updated appliances, a fucking floating magnet bed). The same could be said of Q himself, who was regularly adorned with designer wear in the exact same price range Bond favored, if in a completely different style. 

And although Q earned executive pay, he was still a public servant. So how did he afford a million-dollar mattress? 

Q shrugged when Bond asked. “They’re called patents, 007. And if you’ll recall, I’m an inventor.”

“Oh, so now I’m 007, eh?” Bond teased. “Just a few minutes ago I was ‘James, James!’” 

“And right now you’re ‘that tosser,’” Q grumped. 

“Correction: ‘that tosser who’s going to make you breakfast,’” Bond said. 

“At ten at night?” Q asked. 

“It’s always a good time for scrambled eggs,” Bond said. Particularly because scrambled eggs took so long to make that Q, as planned, fell asleep, leaving Bond time to quietly ransack the place for clues.  

Behind a false wall, under a loose floorboard in a closet with a sign that said ‘Beware of the leopard’ on it, Bond found them: 

Diaries. 

They were written in some kind of code, but Q had helpfully dated each entry, so it was obvious what the books were once Bond opened them and had a look.   

“Tell you what,” Q said, glaring from the open door in the false wall, “if you can crack them, you can read them.” 

Bond did not get laid again that night, and not the next morning either. He had also ruined Q’s appreciation of scrambled eggs as a morning-after meal, perhaps for life. 

He did, however, get to take the diaries back to his flat with him, and the six months it took him to crack Q’s code gave him ample time to work his way back into Q’s good graces, to the point that they moved in together and Bond was allowed to work on them in the living room while Q gave him hints that were mostly false but very occasionally true. 

(This also gave Q time to dig up Bond’s yearbooks from Fettes, an embarrassment so vile that it surely had to make them even. What had he been thinking, keeping his hair that long?) 

Once Bond cracked them, the diaries made for endearing, humorous, and sometimes boring reading, not that he would tell Q that. They consisted of some notes regarding university courses and how Q was feeling that day, any witty or snide remarks he had about the people or media he’d encountered, daydream-y sketches of bizarre gadgets, detailed rants about things someone was Wrong Wrong Wrong about, complaints about the university food, and a rather adorable chronicle of Q’s introduction to sex. 

It was at the sex part that things got interesting. 

_Partner says condom is uncomfortable with foreskin_ , Q wrote.  _Tried it myself and it wasn’t ideal, but it wasn’t terrible. Told him to deal with it if he wanted my arse, but suspect it’ll be easier to invent something to shut him up._

My God. Bond hardly dared to breathe. Was this going where he thought it was going? 

_Convinced partner to test my new invention_ , Q wrote.  _He said it was fab and that he’d like to give some to the lads down the hall. I suppose that would be all right as long as they completed a consumer survey after use._   _“What are you calling them?” partner asked the next day. New product had several positive reviews via digital survey. I hadn’t thought of a name yet. “We’ll name them after you, then!” partner said, and was gone and yelling, “They’re Jacks!” before I could protest that naming a prophylactic after myself mightn’t be the most flattering thing in the world._  

_Partner’s muscles are very nice, but my tolerance for his big mouth begins to wane._

Yes! Bond pressed a hand to his mouth, instinctively concealing his broad grin. Jacks! They were a household name by now, started—yes, ten or fifteen years ago, by some kid in university who began with an online funding operation and ended up a multimillionaire because he’d not only made a more comfortable condom for people with foreskin, he’d engineered a more comfortable and safer condom design in general. Christ, if Q still got royalties from that…why the hell was he working? 

No, Bond knew the answer to that; Q worked because he’d go insane without an intellectually stimulating routine, just like Bond got unbearable to be around when he’d gone for too long without a mission. 

A fine pair, the two of them. Jack and James. 

He bought a pack of Jacks the next time he went out (not their first pack, mind you, and how had Q not said anything the previous times they’d used them?). All he had to do was toss them on the bed to get Q groaning and trying to drown himself in his pillow. Apparently the smirk said it all. 

“Now, Jack,” Bond said, grinning. 

Q flung the pillow at him. “It’s Q,” he said, frowning. “Just Q. If I’m going to be your condom sugar daddy and keep you in caviar, you can call me by my chosen name, thank you.” Despite the sarcastic humor, it was clear that Q meant it. 

Bond sat down next to Q and said seriously, “You know I’ll call you whatever you like.” 

“Thank you,” Q said, leaning into him. 

“But I didn’t know ‘daddy’ was what you were into, Q.” Bond chuckled. 

Q bit him on the shoulder and narrowed his eyes. “Judo,” he said simply. “Judo Bond.” 

Damn that yearbook. And damn his secondary school self to hell for thinking that had been a cool nickname. 

“Did you say we had caviar?” Bond asked. 

“In the kitchen,” Q said, smirking. “I thought that might distract you.” 

They ended up using a Jack or two that night, but even during the initial grin-from-Bond-and-pounce-from-Q moment, Bond was never tempted to use Q’s former name. 

Q was Q, and he was James Bond, and they were Q and James no matter who Q had been or how he’d made his money.  

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! <3 
> 
> Constructive criticism is welcome.


End file.
